


Sacrament

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Rusty has been kidnapped......again. But this time it's not so boring.





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for a tumblr friend :)

The show just won’t stop. Off the air for thirty years and it won’t let him leave. He can see himself from the outside, center frame. An approximation of his body, gangly and pathetic. He has no idea what he looks like, really. He can see himself in the mirror every morning, but touch his own face and feel a heavy numbness. Like novacane. Like a dream. It’s a lifelong dream sequence and it just won’t stop.

This time there are drums beating around him. A slow marching that anyone who’s ever seen a movie would be able to name as  _ complete and inevitable doom. _ Ritualistic, steady. He wishes he could feel like Indiana Jones, sweaty and heroic above a pit of fire. But he can only feel small. He can only feel like the star of his own cartoon.

He’s blindfolded,  _ of course, _ ever-impressed by the creativity of his enemies. Of late they’ve been over-numerous, enticed by his wealth and status. Grabbing like so many hungry hippos at the chance to claim him as their prize. He almost misses the old days, not that he’d ever admit it. Being broke and lonely, at the whim of The Monarch’s dumb ideas.

There’s only one reason he can’t truly miss that mess of a life. It’s two strong arms that have been saving him for years. Back then, they were almost comforted by their denial. Happy to pretend that it meant nothing, when he would be carried home to safety, his bare head pressed against that sturdy chest. It changed so suddenly. It changed when Brock left, and Rusty found that his heart became an empty, growing pit. He returned and all that longing spilled from him like a broken dam. _ You left, I love you, why did you leave? _ And there was no time for explanation. There was only time for desperate love and quiet apologies.

Maybe that’s why he’s nervous. He’s not been fazed by a kidnapping since youth, and yet he finds that sweat drips down his temple. These days, he has something to live for. Something to return to once his shackles are loosed. They drag heavily along the ground, an awful noise as he’s walked beneath the too-bright sun, poked in the back with a bayonet to keep him moving. Even beneath the blindfold, his eyes burn red from the daylight. He wonders what it will be this time. A hanging? Tar and feather? Maybe he’ll be burned at the stake. The slow kind, ignited by glass and heat. It will climb his body like a vine.

The drums cease, and so does the prodding of the bayonet. Even blind, he can tell there are hundreds of eyes on him. It’s a sixth sense. But unlike seeing ghosts, this one is far more morose. A proclivity for torture. He’s no doubt in the center of some crowded square, his death to be a spectacle.

“Doctor Thaddeus S. Venture,” a booming voice bellows, through a megaphone. A little anachronistic, he’d say. Pick a motif and stick with it,  _ god _ . “You are here because you have committed grave sins against God’s divine will.”

“Oh for fuck’s s--” Before he can protest, he hears the tell-tale sound of unlocking at his ankles. “Seriously?” He stretches his toes and calves, so suddenly free. “What are you talking about?”

“You have ignored the sanctity of human life and taken Creation upon yourself. You continue to build abominations through advancing technology. You will die for your sins, along with everyone who works for you.”

“Oh leave them out of it, you Luddites. Unlike me, those two will  _ piss themselves _ if you do this to them.”

It is then that he feels a swift blow to his jaw, knocking him off of his already poor balance, so blind that he is. He lands with a heavy  _ thump _ onto the dusty ground, grunting at the crack he hears, at the stinging of his tailbone. _ Great _ .

“For your misdeeds you will be obliterated.” The voice is loud, still, but it does not echo. Whomever it is that has him on his back now stands close, above him, lording in intimidation.

It’s a little dramatic, Rusty thinks. But he feels rough rope abrating his left wrist. Then his right. His left ankle, and his right--

When the ropes are pulled taut he yelps.  _ This _ is a new one. Drawn-and-quartered. It’s medieval and grotesque, of course. Just as backwards as these people. He hears the neighing of horses. He feels the clouds of dust that they kick up with their hooves, and he gulps despite his short breath _. Shit _ . Usually by this time he’s sassed them into an argument, delaying his torment long enough for Brock to come swooping in.  _ Come on, come on _ ...beneath his blindfold Rusty’s eyes shift side-to-side, as if he can see his surroundings, look for his love and savior on the horizon. 

But he sees nothing. Nothing but his mind’s eye projecting the sight of his body torn to pieces.

“C-come on--” he stutters, squirming in his restraints, gasping at how they pull at every socket. 

“You are not so brave in the face of God  _ now _ , Doctor.” His captor is squatting between his knobby knees, eager to see the blood burst from his body. “I will not even give you the chance to repent for y--  _ hck-- _ ”

The only blood Rusty feels is not his own. Warm and splattering onto his clothes, and he blinks as if he can shuffle off his blindfold. This is gonna be a bitch to clean off. It always is.

“My Lord!” The crowd, grows rowdy and indignant, incensed that their fearless leader has been slain.

“Try me…” Brock’s gravelly voice, calm against the stormy situation. It makes Rusty’s toes curl, even in danger. Even when soaked in blood. “I dare you.” The crowd is quiet and tempted. He hears the swift footsteps of one onlooker, running toward Brock in a rage.

And then nothing but the sound of pierced flesh.

“Anyone else?”

They scatter. Rusty’s chest heaves, breathing heavy from the fright and the thrill. He’s ashamed of himself, really. Always so spurred on by the danger, the retribution of being saved. Brock cuts the ropes with his knife in the silence of the now-empty square, and curls an arm beneath Rusty’s back to keep him from hitting the ground too roughly.

“Doc…” He always sounds disappointed, as if he’s surprised that this keeps happening.

“...” He’s without words, able only to make himself small, small as he feels, limp in Brock’s arms as he picks him up, pulls the blindfold from his eyes. He’s shining like the sun, that man. 

“Let’s get you home…I uh, drove here.” 

Rusty can’t help the way he wants to smile.  _ Drove here _ , no doubt speeding through countless obstacles, ignoring the disadvantage of being on the ground and not in the air. They must be somewhere remote and mountainous.

“Thank you, Brock…”

“You’ve gotta stop sayin’ that,” he scolds, gentle and sweet, a subtle squeeze to his body as he’s carried. It’s almost needless; they both know he can walk. But it’s their routine, and they’ve come to love it. Like their inevitable passion, they’ve come to accept that some things won’t change.

The show just won’t stop airing, but at least there are more happy endings.

They get to Brock’s car and he’s placed carefully onto his feet, shaky in his stance from being tied up and stretched.

“Wait--” As Brock rounds the car to get to the driver’s seat, Rusty reaches out and grabs his sleeve. “Get in the back seat.”

Brock squints at him a moment, searching his face for meaning. And then his gaze softens, an almost bashful smile curling his lips.

“God, Doc, you don’t have to do this every time--”

“I know.” Rusty drops his hand to Brock’s and pulls him toward the car door. “I just...don’t know how else to show you…” How safe he feels, how thankful. How glad he is that he’s not been ripped in fourths. That he was scared, even if he won’t say it.

Brock exhales, his breath almost shaking in anticipation, giving way to Rusty’s bidding, opening the back of the car and laying himself down along the leather.

Even with red marks on his wrists, even with dust and blood and sweat all over his body, Rusty climbs that mountain of a man with a sly grin on his face, settling his skinny thighs on either side of his hips, hands traveling down his chest and stomach. He descends, burying his face in Brock’s hair, his neck, so thick and strong.

“Thank you…” he whispers, chants. He knows how his gratitude makes him hard, makes him shiver. Maybe it’s his ego. They’ve both got one, even if they won’t say it aloud. “Thank you…” As he reaches between their bodies to feel that his wiles are working.

Those heavy hands are resting on his back. They can be so gentle when they aren’t holding a knife, when they aren’t wrapped around a throat. Rusty adores the sliding of rough palms over his neck and head as he makes his way down, down further still. His skinny fingers are quick to undo Brock’s leather belt and zipper fly, freeing him to the hot air of the inside of the car. 

“Thank you…” One more time, and he licks his lips. In his head he paraphrases an old adage, almost laughing to himself as he spreads his jaw to take in such massive flesh. _ Gratitude is a sacrament best taken on one’s knees _ .  _ Oscar Wilde _ . He hums as he descends, having long-trained his throat to give way, to ease and keep him from gagging. 

He’s charmed, enthralled, hearing Brock’s pleased groan. Maybe Rusty isn’t good at that many things. But he’s good at this. He’s good, he’s  _ good _ , he’s told, and his tongue runs circles around his prize.

“God--” Neither of them are pious, clearly. But Brock always sounds like he’s praying when he’s pleasured. So much for his sins, Rusty thinks. 

He doesn’t even come up for air. He salivates and sucks, thankful and safe. He’s  _ safe _ . He’ll always be safe.

**Author's Note:**

> This had me feeling feelings! Contact me @ aaction-johnny.tumblr.com for commission info.


End file.
